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POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



CINCINNATT : 
PMMED BY B. FRANKIANB, 127 MAIN STREET. 




I 



TJiriuttk Forhrjier . lilh. Cmcinnaii.O. 










POEMS AND SKETCHES, 



ELEANOR DUCKWORTH, 



OF EDINBXJRGH, SCOTLAND, 



MILLY WEJSTTWORTH, 



OF NEW ORLEANS. 



JULY. 

PUBLISHED QUARTERLY 



CINCINNATI: 

WENTWORTH & CO., PUBLISHERS. 
MDCCCLVn. 



^^A>^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, by Wentworth & Co., in the 
Clerk's Office of the Southern District of Ohio, in the year 1857. 



■• 




ciiraiiEo 




Preface, 


... vii 


Fear Him, 


9 


. "Let's go Out and Walk Together," 


... 13 


Sky Watchers, 


... 16 


Why Not? 


... 19 


The Born-Poet, 


... 22 


My Mission, 


... 26 


My Western Home, 


... 28 


Live it Down, 


... 30 


My Lost Sister, 


... 32 


Hope out of Sorrow, 


... 34 


A Memory, 


... 36 


Leaving Home, 


... 39 


" Dimly through the Mist of Years," 


... 42 


Our Liltle Lilly's Death, 


... 44 


Lament of the Bereaved, 


... 46 


Eloquence, 


... 48 


Misericordia, 


... 50 


A Fragment, 


... 52 


Immoral Poetry, 


... 53 


The Dream of Yesterday, 


... 57 



Keminiscences, 60 

Thou art Beloved, 63 

There is no Sin in Loving Thee, 66 

Prayer of the Neglected Wife, 69 

To a Star-Dreamer, 72 

Sad Memories, 76 

Thou hast Fled, Bright and Glorious Vision 78 

The Lover to his Lady, 80 

A Sketch from Real Life, 82 

Woman's Rights, 86 

A Mother's Tears, 90 

Harmless Gossip, 92 

American Young Ladies, 94 

The Christian Merchant, 98 

Immortality, 101 

Stanzas, 103 




S'lPiSi'ff 



2&, 



The Authoress has been encoui-aged to this undertaking by 
the solicitation of many friends, who have expressed a desire 
that some of her poems which have appeared in the columns of 
the EDiNBUEaH Waveeley Joxirnal, should be published in a 
more collected form. The following pages comprise, therefore, a 
few stray waifs which have been for some time floating upon 
the sea of periodical literature. They are now for the first time 
collected and given to the American public, with many others 
which have never before appeared in print. 

This work was originally published in Edinburgh, Scotland, 
and its success throughout Great Britain has been unprecedented. 
We anticipated issuing the present number in June, but unfore- 
seen events have delayed its publication for one month. We 
trust, however, it will be none the less acceptable. To our 
friends throughout the entire Union, for their liberal encourage- 
ment, we are truly grateful. 

MiLLY WeNTWORTH. 



um^ aitb 




ear mxm. 



"But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear; Fear Him, 
which, after He hath killed, hath power to cast into hell ; yea, 
I say unto you, fear Him." — Luke xii. 5. 



I. 

Fear Him, fair children ! fear the great All-Seeing, 

Ere your young souls can fully comprehend, 
Their strange connection with that -wondrous Being 

Who is at once Creator, Father, Friend ! 
He speaks to you ere ye have ceased to wonder 

At the broad earth, and bright, o'er-arching sky, 
While yet ye tremble at the loud-voiced thunder, 

And the bright lightning as it flashes by. 
Through these He bids you fear Him, yet confiding 

In His deep love, to do His holy will. 
And wheresoever His tender hand is guiding. 

With childlike confidence to follow still; 



10 . POEMS AND SKETCHES. 

And if your hearts, that high command obeying, 

Devote to Him life's first, fresh, stainless hours, 
So shall the pathways where your feet are straying, 

Be fragrant with the breath of sweetest flowers. 
So shall your souls be spared the touch of sorrow. 

The bitter chastenings of affliction's rod, 
If ye from gentler things will learn to borrow 

Your lesson of obedience to God. 

II. 

Fear Him, youth ! for ye have many teachings 

That in your earlier guidance had no part. 
Ye hear far less of Nature's silent preachings — 

Far more the whisperings of the wayward heart. 
Life's shallow stream is now a rapid river, 

Which in its turn shall soon become a sea — ■ 
For its great circle deepens, broadens ever, 

And knows no limit save eternity. 
Fear Him ! not Mindly^ slavishly^ but rather 

With mingled love, and tenderness, and awe, 
As ye would fear the kindest earthly father. 

And dread to disobey his slightest law. 
Fear Him ! but let your holy fear be spoken 

In works of gentleness, and words of love — 
In striving e're to keep the link unbroken 

That binds your spirit to the realms above. 
So shall His kind, protecting presence guide you 

Through light and joy — through darkness and dismay, 
And whatsoever earthly ills betide yon, 

His loving smile shall light you on your Wivy. 



FEAR HIM, 1 1 



III. 

Fear Him ! Ye, upon wliose life-trees blushing. 

Ripen tlie fruitage of your Autumn days — 
But in wliose path Fate's cruel hand is crushing 

Flowers, that in Spring unfolded to your gaze. 
Fear Him ! and use the talents he has given, 

Truth's golden sunlight o'er the world to spread; 
To hearts despairing give the hope of Heaven — 

For souls that famish, scatter living bread. 
Fear Him ! and fling upon His holy altar 

The highest aims, the dearest Jiopes of life, 
And then, re-nerved with faith that cannot falter, 

Go forth to mingle in the great world's strife ; — 
Go forth to aid your weaker friends and brothers, 

"Who struggle wearily, and faint and fall, 
Freely impart your soul's deep strength to others, 

That they, too, may be free from error's thrall; 
So shall your father heed each weak endeavour 

That ye shall make to tread temptation down; 
And each shall win at last, and wear for ever. 

The victor's spotless robe and golden crown. 



IV. 

Fear Him ! Ye, whose paths are growing dreary 
With shadows gathering from the vale of gloom. 

Whose feet, from life's rough march, are sore and weary. 
And tremble feebly as they near the tomb. 

Fear Him ! and let your last declining hours 
Be given as nobly to the cause of truth. 



12 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 

As though ye still were strong with Manhood's powers, 

Or the fresh courage of impulsive youth.^^ 
So shall the long day find at last a closing, 

And ye shall have a better home than this, 
Where, in the light of boundless love reposing, 

Ye shall enjoy an endless age of bliss. 
Oh ! God ! teach all mankind Thy loving kindness, 

Thy mighty power to shield the cause of right, 
Until, returning trom its wilful blindness, 

Each human soul shall seek Thy wondrous light. 
Until before Thy throne in praise low-bending, 

A ransomed world shall lift its songs for aye ; 
And there, in gratitude that knows no ending. 

Shall fear Thee still, but love Thee, and obey. 




let's go out and walk together. 13 



let's fio ®ut anb Wafli TojetKer, 



T. 

Let's go out and walk together, 

Down among the leafy trees, 
While the tender twilight listens 

To the whispers of the breeze; 
And the misty mountain sleepetb, 

Pillow' d on the hazy night, 
And the face of heaven glowetli 

With the evening's mellow light. 

II. 

Let's go out and walk together, 

Where the wildflower makes its bed; 
And from starry eyes are falling 

Dew-tears on its drooping head. 
And the gentle woodbine clingeth 

To the old oak's rugged feet — 
Where, among its giant branches 

Gay birds sing themselves to sleep. 



14 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



III. 

Let's go out and walk together 

Where the tall spire points above, 
And the solemn evening vespers 

Seem to whisper, "God is Love!" — 
Where the sighing brooklet gushes 

Music from its pebbly brink — 
On its verdant banks we'll linger, 

We will sit us down and think. 

IV. 

Let's sit down and think together, 

Here beside this little mound — 
How the tender vine doth clasp it. 

Still half-hidden in the ground — 
While the lowly tendrils linger, 

Heavenward turns its violet eyes — 
Here the weary body sleepeth. 

There the blissful spirit flies. 

V. 

Let's sit down and think together 

Of those voyagers of life — 
They who, fighting Time's fierce battles, 

Fell and perished in the strife. 
They were strong and brave, yet feeble — 

Bursting through life's prison bars, 
They came forth from tribulation, 

Mounting up beyond the stars! 



let's go out and walk together. 15 



VI. 

Let's sit down and think togetlier, 

How the loved who passed away, 
Dying, cast their mantles o'er us, 

Bidding us be firm as they ; 
Bidding us be strong and fearless ! — 

Of the bright and glorious few, 
Bold in thought, and bold in action, 

Bold to speak, and bold to do ! 




16 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Skg Watclier^. 



I. 

The stars, the glorious stars, 

In heaven's immensity, 
Are gazing fondly down 

With eyes of love on me. 
Oh that my soul might hold 

Companionship with them, 
Far from the woes of earth, 

Far from the haunts of men! 



II. 

Those orbs are angel's eyes — 

Ah! beam they brightly now! 
Shed the celestial light 

Of Heaven upon my brow; 
Each zephyr's moaning breath 

Is e'en an angel's sigh; 
Each dew-gem is a tear 

Dropt from an angel's eye! 



SKY WATCHERS. 1 7 



III. 

Say, beauteous spirits, say, 

What message do ye bring 
For us, poor sons of clay, 

To which our hopes may cling? 
Among the blissful throng 

Of ransomed ones above, 
Are any dear to us 

Whom we were wont to love? 

IV. 

Perchance they bade thee come 

Upon the lambent air 
And urge our spirits home, 

To greet the loved ones there; 
Perchance, bright stars, to thee 

The glorious mission's given 
To light the shadowy gulf 

Betwixt our souls and heaven. 

V. 

Say, heavenly watchers, when 

Thy silent vigils o'er — 
Is thine the holy light 

That shines for evermoi'e? 
Is thine the gentle voice 

That speaks the soul forgiven, 
And points the erring up. 

In confidence, to heaven? 



18 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



VI. 

Not till each pang is o'er, 

Each tear-drop wiped away, 
Shall those celestial lights 

Withdraw one pitying ray ; 
Ah! not while sorrow floats 

On every passing breath, 
And Youth and Love are chilled 

By the bleak blast of death ! 



c-jp 



WHY NOT? 19 



Wlig Not? 



I. 

If some simple-hearted brother 

Thinks the world all kind and true, 
Human nature nearly perfect, 

And himself as — good as you; — 
And believes an humble station 

Better than a dangerous height, 
Where the ones beneath will taunt him 

With their words of envious spite: 
If he seems with these staid notions 

Quite contented with his lot. 
Why not leave him unenlightened? 

For his happiness — "why not?" 

II. 

If the poor, with "pale, pinched faces," 
Linger in the path you tread. 

And with thin, white hands extended. 
Cry to you for daily bread — 



20 POEMS AXD SKETCHES. 

Shall the prayers ascending upwards 

From each vainly pleading lip, 
Set God's seal of condemnation 

On your faithless stewardship? 
Food and clothing for the needy — 

Shall they be in A-ain besought? 
Why not give them of your plenty? 

Conscience whispers it — "why not?' 



III. 

If the friend you fondly cherish, 

Fondness with contempt repays, 
And when most you love and trust him, 

With a traitor's kiss betrays: 
As the angry blood is mounting 

Burningly to brow and cheek, 
And upon your lips are trembling 

Words you hardly dare to speak — 
Why not let forgiving feelings 

Mingle with your surging thought? 
Think — the dying prayer of Jesus 

For bis cruel foes, — "why not?" 



IV. 

Brother, sister, warring ever 
On the battle plains of life, 

Why not struggle on more bravely 
In the hot continued strife? 



WHY NOT? 21 



Why not point the weary pilgrim 

Oftener to his glorious goal? 
Why not fold your arms of pity 

Round the sorrow-stricken soul? 
From the voice of God within us, 

From the precepts Jesus taught, 
Like accusing angels whispers. 

Come the echoed words — "why 




22 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Ihe Boru-3?oet. 



Start not, thou collegian ! Seek not to discover the secret 
charm that thrills the Born-Poet, within the shades of collegiate 
lore, or in the atmosphere of professorship. It is not there! 
^Esthetics is but a meagre dish— an artificial flower, with but a 
borrowed fragrance. The Born-Poet asks not refinement, {fashion- 
able refinement) nor rows of books and high-sounding Avords. 
All these are but daubs of the painter's brush upon a cloud at 
sunset; and he who trusts to these alone, but apes the beautiful, 
and babbles at the best. 

I once knew one, for whom I may claim the appellation of 
Born-Poet. And yet he never penned a song. Poetry was his 
divinity — he lived in her light, and bowed to her in complete 
devotion. And was he happy ? Not as the gross, grovelling 
world esteem happiness ; yet his soul drank in such glorious 
fountains of joy fi'om every up-springing flower, and blade of 
grass, and dew-drop, that his was the happiness of the ethereal 
rather than the earthly. The gnarled oak, with its siu«wy arms 
stretching out into the dark forest — the twittering bird, the 
whispering zephyr, the solemn silence of midnight- these wore 



THE BORN POET. 23 



his deities. He worshipped them, communed with them, and 
was far happier than if his companions had been more communi- 
cative and less true. 

But I set out to say something of his trials, and I find 
myself at once flying off to the balm, the restorative, the com- 
forter. He had sorrows — not every-day, common-place sorrows ; 
and if you could have seen him — his dark, flashing eye, his pale, 
thoughtful brow, you would say, perhaps, that a too-killing 
sorrow had sought him out, and that he had accepted it, and 
cherished it, and received it gladly into his bosom. Well, it is 
true ; and in that very truth is another truth accounted for. He 
was happy in stretching his heart-strings to their utmost tension, 
to see how much they would bear without breaking. His was 
a sad, but not the less exquisite pleasure ; he joyed in the very 
grief that was wearing him out; he communed with the spirit 
of loneliness ; and when it came knocking at his heart, he would 
open wide the door of his soul and invite it to enter. 

Circumstances had strangely conspired to make him what he 
was. His father passed away before he saw the light, and his 
mind could but faintly grasp the recollection of a sainted mother, 
who was also sleeping the sleep of forgetfulness. He had been 
nurtured by strange, unsympathising ones, whose duty was paid 
for with a price, and whose instructions and promptings came not 
from the heart. But he was a connoisseur, and knew how to 
detect the empty phrase, and the unmeaning word, and so his 
own heart would suggest to him that true affection vaunteth not 
itself, and seeketh no inspiration from the tinselled treasm-e or 
flattering song. And when fairy forms fluttered around him, and 
the hum of vain voices fell on his ear, he would smile a smile 
of disdain, and an emotion of disgust and pity, for human passion 
and human weakness, would bubble up from his heart, and 
tremble on his tongue. 

Yet there was one with whom the Born-Poet felt he might 
commune. She was not of the throng of fashion — she was a 



24 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



pensive, quiet creature, unskilled in art and accomplishment, 
unused to fashionable folly. But he thought he could discover 
beneath her calm, quiet exterior, a soul that could partake largely 
of the noble and the aspiring — a soul even like his own. And 
so he came to sympathize with her, to love her, and to live 
for her. 

It was strange how these two beings came to know each 
other. The one proud, (as the world said) calm, cold, passion- 
less — the other meek, quiet, and retiring, weak in all save love. 
The one with a placid face, on which a smile of joy or a cloud 
of grief never came — the other poor, plain and pensive. The 
one a forest oak, defying the whirlwind and the tempest — the 
other a weak vine, unable to brave a single harsh breath. The 
one a mighty rock, lifting it^ bold peak high above the clouds, 
and against which the waves of ocean dash in vain — the other 
a poor, modest violet, which the first billow might sweep away 
and destroy. But the oak and the vine — the rock and the 
violet — the strong man and the weak girl — were one in heart, 
in affection, in soul — and when soul meets soul, the thrill of 
recognition instinctively comes. 

Their loves had never been breathed in words. Hearts have 
no lip-language ; and they trusted to the holy promptings of their 
own souls, rather than to the foolish forms of arbitrary phrase. 
And for many mouths these two spirits lived with and for each 
other, till at last, a whisper, a breath parted them. It was like 
tearing the heart out — each suffered alike. The strong oak shook 
like a reed — the weak violet drooped and withered. A serpent 
sprang up in their path, and both recoiled from it. It was the 
Slander-serpent ; and as it passed between them, they only once 
gazed lovingly upon each other, only onco blessed each other, and 
then turned away for ever. 

The slander-spirit moved on, but a wreck marked the spot. 
A blight had come. It had fallen upon their hearts and homes. 
The stricken girl turned back to her own heart for support. 



THE BORN POET. 25 



Its mate was gone. It was lonely — lonely. The hectic came to 
her cheek, and the glare to her eye. They blushed and burned 
for a season, and then passed away. The cheek became sunken, 
and the eye lustreless. The serpent-tongue of slander cannot blast 
the green turf that thrives over her tomb. 

The Born-Poet changed not, save that his cheek became a 
shade paler, his countenance more stem. True, that frown which 
before was only transient, now became fixed and frigid; but none 
knew whether his was a grief which was comfortless, or an 
apathy which could be shaken off never more ! 




26 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



M^ Mission* 



With thoughts that burn and thrill, 
Nor by anathemas to stem 

The tide of human ill ; 
Not mine to bask in suns of fame, 
Nor revel on a deathless name, 

By mighty wonders won — 
A holier work is near my heart — 
To heal a pang, to soothe a smart — 

To raise a fallen one! 

II. 

My Mission ! it is not to dream 

Of flattery and power, 
Nor feast and banquet as a Queen, 

A mistress of an hour; — 
Nor mine to revel with the throng 
That wing the jest, or swell the song. 



MY MISSION. 27 




jLnd scorn the chast'ning rod ; — 


Ah 


no! with eye of faith, I trust, 


To 


lift some sister from the dust. 


• 


And point her up to God ! 




III. 


My 


Mission 1 'tis a holier one 




Than mighty monarchs know, — 


Wrapped in the war-cloud's sable dun, 




They steep the world in woe ; 


The 


heavy roar of mortal strife, 


The 


shudders of expiring life, 




Their horrid anthems raise ; 


I'd 


change the solemn dirge of death, — 


The 


voice of grief — the stifling breath. 




To songs of love and praise 1 




IV. 


I envy not the lordly chief, 1 




Wrapped in his robe of state — | 


To 


dry a tear — to soften grief, 




Is tD be truly great ! 


To 


raise some mourner from the tomb, 


And point him upward, through the gloom 




That rests upon the grave; — 


A 


glorious work is left for me — 


To 


set some struggling captive free — 




Some precious soul to save! 



28 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



M5 Western Mome. 



My Western home! ray western home 

Still lingers in my spirits view, 
Though freighted years of grief have flown 

Since it receiyed my last adieu; 
The rugged rocks and trellis vine, 

That fondly clasped its craggy brow — 
The wild-rose and the eglantine — 

0, do they bloom as sweetly now? 

II, 

I long to see the dimpled wave 

That never ceased its gentle flow, 
Where oft at eve I used to lave 

In the unrippled depths below; 
It seemed that music fresh from heaven 

Was wafted on each zephyr there — 
Alas ! the moaning winds of even, 

Chime wildly now with my despair! 



MY WESTERN HOME. 29 



III. 

I long to see those blooming hills, 

And fields of rich and yellow corn 
And feel again the joyous thrills 

Awakened by the hunter's horn; 
I long to taste the golden peach, 

That blushed upon its tiny stem — 
But still I know 1 ne'er may reach 

The pleasures that I tasted then ! 

IV. 

Behind a labyrinth of flowers, 

Our peaceful homestead sweetly slept; 
It sheltered me in brighter hours, 

There I have smiled and I have wept ! 
Those flowers by other hands are reared, 

Those fields by other feet are trod; 
Those halls to others are endeared — 

My tears have drenched each friendly sod ! 



My kindred sleep beside the wave, 

0, angels! guard that sacred spot. 
For though their quiet, moss-grown grave 

Is lone, it ne'er can be forgot; 
And if a home remains for me 

When sins and sorrows are forgiven, 
0, let that Western cottage be 

My home, I ask no better heaven ! 



30 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



ILwz it ©own. 



I. 

Live it down! — the tongue will tire 

Ere its slanderous hiss o'ercome thee; 
Purified within the fire, 

Truth's bright mantle shines upon thee. 
Bear the blight, endure the shock, 

Hoping for a bright to-morrow; 
Thou art safe upon the rock, 

Fear not thou the poisoned arrow ! 

II. 

Live it down! — there is a voice 

That can stem the conflict's raging; 
It shall bid thy soul rejoice, 

Midst the war thy foes are waging! 
Aye, the venomed tongue shall hush; 

Truth and right need no dissembling; 
Face the world without a blush — 

Face it without fear or trembling ! 



LIVE IT DOWN. 31 



III. 

Live it down! — 'twill not be long; 

Study meekness and contentment, 
Time, be sure, will right thy wrong — 

Time extinguishes resentment. 
Be thou resolute and firm, 

E'en thy grief might still be greater; 
When the clouds are darkest turn — 

Turn for help to thy Creator! 

IV. 

Live it down! — the bruised reed 

Clasps the oak when frail and slender; 
So, when comes thy hour of need, 

Cling unto the Great Defender. 
Spurn the prison, rack, and rod — 

Spurn each semblance of temptation ; 
Leaning on the arm of God, 

Come forth fi-om thy tribulation. 




32 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Mv IcObI Sister. 



I. 

I am all alone in my chamber now, 

And the hours are flying fast; 
My soul, with a listless, aching sigh, 

Goes back to the misty past; 
It dwells on the days when hope was young, 

And the heart beat fresh and free, 
When it throbbed with a fond and trusting one, 

Heaven's choicest gift to me! 

11. 

She was all holy and innocent, 

And her fringed eye's lustrous hue 
Shone out from the depths of a faithful heart, 

All tender, and kind, and true ; 
E'en now when the azure skies are bright, 

And the night-orbs glisten fair; 
My straining eyes look up to them, 

And I see her spirit there! 



MY LOST SISTER. 33 



III. 

I see her now as she used to sit 

By the sighing brooklet's shore, 
And laugh at the tiny waves, that leapt 

Into spray, as they circled o'er; 

the flowers smiled, as they bathed their cheeks 
In the clear pellucid stream — 

But the scene is changed, and to me is left 
But the shadow of a dream. 

IV. 

She is gone for aye — her ringing laugh 

Is hushed in silence deep — 
She sleepeth in the mystic land, 

And the angels her vigils keep! 
And now, when the stars are pale and pure, 

And glitter upon the sea, 

1 close my eyes and dream of her — 
Alas! will she dream of me? 




34 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Hope out c{ Sorrow. 



I. 

The strong south-west monsoon arose, 

And its voice was hoarse and bleak, 
Its gales were wild as the storm is wild, 

And they blanched a faithful cheek; 
It bore a freight of grief and pain 

From beyond the Indian sea — 
A message of death on the breezes came. 

But I fonder turned to thee, mother, 

But I fonder turned to thee ! 

II. 

the words it spake were words of gloom; 

Charged with their freight of woe, 
The wailing breezes sobbed and sighed 

An ecstacy of woe! 



* The father of the authoress died suddenly in India. This 
little piece was suggested on hearing of his death, and addressed 
to her widowed mother. 



HOPE OUT OP SORROW. 35 



But Hope kept whispering, "Look up!" 
Look up ! and thy soul shall see 

Joy brimming forth from the bitter cup — 
It shall still find rest in thee, mother, 
It shall still find rest in thee! 

III. 

My heart looked forth from the dreary maze, 

ArPd wondered why it wept; 
It turned away from the narrow crypt, 

Where its perished idol slept — 
For the winds kept telling o'er and o'er 

These precious words to me — 
Weep not for those who have gone before, 

But live to comfort thee mother, 



IV. 

And so the wild south-west monsoon 
Bore back to that Indian clime, 

My heart's regrets for the loved and lost, 
And its faithfulness to thine — 

And it bore a vow — a holy vow — 
That wherever I may be, 

It shall ever throb, as it throbs e'en now. 
To bless and be blessed by thee mother, 
To bless and be blessed by thee. 



36 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



A M 



ewor^. 



"All the skill of the great City 

To save that little life was Tain."— Dickens. 



A Vision haunts me — from the past upgushing 
Its pictures come, sad, mournful, yet serene. 

As with a spell each wayward impulse hushing, 
The fleet-winged years roll back their shadowy screen. 

Once more I linger in that realm of beauty. 
O'er which the Angel-guards of childhood bow. 

Ere the young soul has learned to shrink from duty, 
Or sorrow's thorn-crown bound the bleeding brow. 

A golden head is on my breast reclining ; 

A child's brown eyes are lifted soft and meek ; 
White, dimpled arms about my neck are twining, 

And velvet lips are pressed against my cheek. 

By the warm love-light rippling o'er each feature, 
Like morning sunshine through a flowery dell, 

I know her well, sweet, winsome little creature. 
My baby-sister, sunny-eyed Estelle ! 



A MEMORY, 37 



The youngest darling of our household treasures, 
Gladding our home by childhood's winning arts ; 

The one pure presence heightening all our pleasures, 
And folding Heaven more closely to our hearts. 



The scene is changed. I see a tiny coflBn, 
Swelling to view from many a sable fold, 

While from within, by muslin shrouds-plaits shaded, 
Her face gleams up, thin, marble-like, and cold. 

Spring's palest flowers the blue-veined forehead pressing 

Lie still and lifeless as the clay beneath, 
Save when the perfumed wind, in mute caressing, 

Lifts their pure petals with its silken breath. 

Bear hence her dust! 'tis but an open prison. 

An unbarred cage from whence the bird has flown 

To sunnier climes, on snow-white pinions risen. 
To warble holier songs before the throne. 

Estelle, dear lost one ! where the wind's low whispers. 
In dreamy tones through bending tree-boughs creep, 

And blue-lipped violets at their silent vespers 
Shed dewy tears — we laid thee down to sleep. 

We love to think when earthly cares enthrall us, 
Thine angel wings flit downward to our side, 

Thy viewless hands unclasp the chains that gall us, 
And point us softly to the Crucified. 



38 POEMS AND SKETCHES. • 

Death is no dark, mysterious river, sweeping 

Through Life's green valleys with a sullen roar, - 

Across whose waves the sounds of mortal weeping 
Is borne, and echoed from the further shore ; 

But a clear stream, whose low-toned music ever, 
Lulls to repose the weary and oppressed; 

Athwart whose tide Heaven's glowing sunbeams quiver 
Till every billow wears a golden crest. 



Adown that stream, enwrapped in soft, dim shadows, 
We, too must glide when Earth unbinds its spell, 

Henceforth to wander through those flower-strewn meadows, 
Where thou art waiting us, our lost Estelle ! 



MILLY. 




LEAVING HOME. 



39 



iLcavin^ Home. 



There is a place on earth called "Home." It is bounded 
by four walls, and its hearth-stone is its altai'-stone. Dear asso- 
ciations cluster around the chimney-corner; and every niche, and 
cranny, and broken brick is sanctified — sanctified by some plea- 
sant memory. The voices of sisters and mothers, fathers and 
brothers, have consecrated the spot, have resounded in the sacred 
precincts — the voices of sisters and mothers, dear sisters and dear 
mothers. "We have wandered from home, but its magnetism is 
still upon us. It is the center of our mental solar system, and 
we revolve round its remembrances — are bound forever by its 
attractions in our life's orbit. 

John was of age. The spirit of enterprise and restlessness 
had fastened upon him, and he resolved to buckle on the armour 
of self-dependence, and go forth to fight with the Goliah of the 
world — the mighty Goliah, whose spear is like unto a weaver's 
beam, and who vaunteth himself against beardless Davids, fresh 
from the herding of cattle. 

John's last evening at home was a sad and silent one. The 
family circle gazed mournfully at the fire — looked uneasily at the 
blazing fire. The preparations had been completed, and they 
were very simple. There was little sleep that night at the farm- 
house ; the inmates laid awake, thinking of the young man's 
departure on the morrow. In the morning all appeared at the 
breakfast table; but no one felt like eating. The father was 
grave ; the mother looked often at John. This thought entered 
her mind : — 



40 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



"Perhaps John will never be seen at the home-board again." 

And the tears filled her eyes ; and she tried to press them 
back with a strong effort of the will. There waa a sorrowful 
echo in the brain which kept iterating — "Never be seen at the 
home-board again ! " She could not bear it. She arose and went 
to the window, as if to observe something that was passing. 
Sister Mary's eyes were red; and brother Ned wore a dull, dubious 
expression. 

John got up from the table and put on his hat, casting 
a significant glance at his bundle — a small bundle in a chair 
near the door. 

" I suppose it is time to be going," he said in a low and 
leather thick voice. 

He shook hands with Ned, and Mary kissed him. He 
attempted to smile and say something encouraging to her, but 
her warm lips melted down his resolution. He was aware that 
his father had taken his hand, but his eye-lids were weighing 
heavily upon his eyes, and he did not attempt to raise them. 

"John, be just and industrious," he said, in a shaky voice. 
"If you do not return to us rich, come back honest — come back 
to your old father and mother honest, John. We have toiled side 
by side, my son — many years side by side. If I have been 
harsh to you, or unforgiving, you must forgive me, nor bear away 
from this paternal roof in your heart aught but kindness and 
love — kindness and love for your father, John." 

John tried to say, "Don't, father!" but couldn't. It touched 
a sensative place to hear the good old man talk so — talk so 
Christianly. 

A softer hand grasped his — a very soft hand, full of mother's 
magnetism — mother's sweet magnetism. John's bosom was swell- 
ing tumultuously, and he could not summon courage to look into 
her eyes. 

"John," said she — the word thrilled him — "Time has been 
dealing with me for more than half-a-century. I'm getting old — 



LEAVING HOME. 41 



I'm following those who have given dust to dust. The material 
world is fading, and the fashion thei'eof changing. You arc going 
out from before my sight, and I may see your face no more. 
John," — the old lady's voice quivered afifectingly — " a portion of 
my being lives in you; no other can love you as I do — as your 
fond old mother loves you. For my sake be careful what you 
do — be very careful what you do, for you cannot suffer v^ithout 
my feeling the pain : mothers feel their children's pain, John." 
The good lady paused, and the tears ran down her cheeks. 
" I'm afraid I shall never see you again. Perhaps this is 
the last time I shall ever embrace you. Oh, John, how can I 
give you up! how can I suffer you to depart I The days and 
the nights will be long when you have gone. I shall count the 
days, and lay awake nights — lay awake thinking of and praying 
for you. There is no selfishness in my love: it is all-sacrificing, 
all-forgiving, and watchful. Beware of evil infiuences, my son. 
And whatever your misfortunes or success may be, do not forget 
those at home ! " 

John was full and running over at the eyes ; he wanted to 
sob like a child, How weak he was ; how his strength went 
away, leaving him subdued and grieving. He had never dreamed 
that parting was such an ordeal. His mother, like Paul, fell 
upon his neck and wept. And John gave way and wept too. 
She said, "God bless you!" and then he departed, tearful and 
son-owing. 

Header, did you ever hear a mother's "God bless you?" 
It is freighted with solemn, thrilling sweetness. I cannot keep 
back the tears when I think of it. Many lips that have pro- 
nounced it with the fervor of inexpi-essible love, are ashes to-day ; 
many hearts that have felt it are crumbling in the narrow 
crypt ; many souls that are in Heaven have trembled at the 
pain of its birth. 



42 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



''Bxm(i? ilirougli tKe Mi^t of Years. 



Dimly through the mist of years 
Beams upon my vision now, 

Bright eyes brimming o'er with tears- 
Smiles of joy on many a brow ; 

Eyes unused to sights of woe, 
Hearts that never knew a sigh — 

Far too pure for aught below, 
Kindred spirits sought on high. 

II. 

Flowers decked the streamlet's side, 

Birds sang blithely all the day — 
When the flowers drooped and died, 

Those sweet warblers soared away; 
Clouds of woe obscured each brow, 

Till they burst life's prison-bars — 
We can see them shining now 

In the palpitating stars. 



DIMLY THROUGH THE MIST OF YEARS. 43 



III. 

Those pure bosoms heave no more, 

Rest thej in a dreamless sleep — 
When the woes of life are o'er 

We with them may cease to weep; 
We may meet them with the throng, 

Never, never more to part, 
In a greeting fond and long. 

Lip to lip, and heart to heart ! 




44 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



®ur MiU Mk'^ Beart. 



I. 

The evening zephyrs sadly swept 

O'er naany a hill and plain, 
And from its clear blue home above, 

The starlight trembling came; 
Aye, earth was crowned with beauty then. 

And 'neath the breath of even, 
Each dear and lovely object seemed 

Reflected back from Heaven. 

II. 

On the still couch the night-orb shed 

A soft and silvery ray, 
Where, calm and pure a gentle one 

In silent slumber lay; 
On her young brow a sweet, sad smile, 

Diffused a radiant glow, 
While two white hands were folded o'er 

The pulseless heart below. 



OUR LITTLE LILLY'S DEATH. 45 



III. 

We breathed with low, sad whispers then, 

Our little lost one's name. 
But, ah! her gentle voice was hushed, 

No answering greeting came ! 
Her gentle bosom heaved no more 

With life's warm, waving breath. 
And our loved Lilly calmly slept. 

The last long sleep of death. 




46 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



ILawettt of fKe Bcreaveb. 



I. 

I hear upon each zephyr's breath, 

That sweeps across the billowy sea, 
A soft, sad voice, now hushed in death, 

In gentle murmurs, whisper me ; 
And then I think of brighter hours, 

And memories of bliss and bloom. 
Of hopes as fleeting as the flowers 

That grew and perished o'er her tomb. 

II. 

No more I see the tender glow 

That beamed in her eff"ulgent eye ; 
No more her silvery voice I know. 

With all its gush of melody ; 
But only in the orbs, that shed 

Their cold, calm radiance on the wave 
I trace the image of the dead — 

I see the semblance of the grave! 



LAMENT OF THE BEREAVED. 47 



And must I ever hopeless bear 

This dark, and drear, and gloomy part, 
Without one kindred soul to share 

The grief that rends my wretched heart? 
While that dear idol sweetly rests 

On some enchanted isle afar — 
Her form enshrined among the blest — 

Her features beaming in each star. 

IV. 

# 

Ah, not a minstrel tunes his lyre, 

But sadly tremble on its strings, 
And from the souls ethereal fire 

No beam of true effulgence springs. 
The earth is sad, and cold, and drear, 

And hoarsely moans the hoary sea — 
No spark of hope will linger hear, 

While memory is left to me. 

V. 

0, let me close these tear-dimned eyes. 

Since hope is fled, and passion o'er. 
And dream of her beyond the skies. 

Who is not lost, but gone before! 
So may her gentle presence fill 

My longing soul with light and flame. 
Till passion's waves are hushed and still. 

Till life and joy are mine again! 



48 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



tl 



oijuence. 



I- 

I have seen a bird from its woodland nest, 

Soar up to the deep blue sky, 
Till the fading lines of its distant form 

Were lost to my upturned eye ; 
I have watched the spot where it disappeared, 

In its dim and noiseless flight, 
Until, as returning again to earth, 

Tt came to my longing sight, — 

n. 

And then to my ear have its warblings seemed 

So holy, and soft, and cleai'. 
That I almost knew it had learned above, 

The strains of a brighter sphere, 
I have turned away to my daily toil — 

But, thrilled by that simple song, 
My heart has become, for its melody. 

More loving, and pure and strong ! 



ELOQUENCE. 49 



III. 

I have watched the flight of a uoble mind, 

Through realms of its own high thought, 
Up, up, till its pinions were bathed in light, 

From a holier region caught ; 
I have waited long for its slow descent, 

That my yearning heart might know 
The message of hope and love it brought 

To the weary souls below, — 

IV. 

I have turned away to my daily toil. 

But still have its teachings been, 
Like a silent and all-resistless power 

To the whisperings of sin. 
I have gained new strength from its counselings, 

And so hath my path been trod. 
With a deepened love for my fellow-man. 

And a stronger trust in God. 




60 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Mi^iericorbia. 



Murky night, and speeds the blast, 
Rushing like a warrior past, 
Where shall it find rest at last? 

Where the pang, the grief, the smart. 
Rankles in the bleeding heart, 
Pierced by many a fatal dart! 

Down among its gloomy caves. 

Restless as the ocean waves. 

Dark and damp as sinners' graves ! 

Yet the dreary night- winds moan 
Round a vacant hearth and home, 
Bidding her who reft it, come ! 

Come and visit it again — 

Come with all thy guilt and stain. 

While the lonely ones remain. 



MISERICORDIA. 51 



Come and see the vacant chair 
Drawn up to the hearthstone there — 
What a teacher for despair ! 

Thing of wretchedness and sin, 

Stifle all that feels within, 

While thine eyes look forth on him\ 

Stifle each remorseful feeling 

Every lineament revealing 

How his woes are with him dealing! 

Sorrow where all once was fair, 
Sitting on his brow, despair ! — 
Wretched one, thj ivork is there! 



C^f) 



rOEMS AND SKETCHES. 



A Fragment. 



Who has not seen some solitary glen 
Sleeping in silence far from haunts of men ? 
Where stately trees in drapery of green, 
Hunt out the glinting sunshine from the scene ; 
While, far below, screened from the light of day, 
A babbling brook pursues its devious way — 
Now glides as noiseless as the wily snake. 
Now disappears behind some friendly brake — 
Now blushes crimson, as the sun's red ray 
Bursts through the trees to kiss its gloom away ;- 
Now prattles with the pebbles, telling o'er 
Some wondrous legend, never heard before ; — 
Now flowing onward, silent, dark and deep. 
Now thundering down the bold and rocky steep- 
As if its sullen waters longed to be 
Lost in the vastness of the mighty sea ! 



IMMORAL POETRY. 53 



Immoraf Poetry. 



' Oh, love, oh, fire ! once he drew 

With one long kiss, my whole soul through 

My lips." 



We have of late seen this "glowing stanza" selected by some of 
our journalists, from others of the same stamp, as a literary gem 
of the first water, from the elaborate casket of Tennyson ; but we 
venture to confess to a difierent judgment upon it, and to pro- 
nounce it, as we do many of the same collection, to be of false 
brilliancy, and, though showy, deficient in intrinsic worth— not the 
diamond, but its counterfeit— which the scrutinizing lapidary would 
reject, however it might dazzle and deceive the unwary. But, to 
indulge no longer in metaphor, we contend that propriety of senti- 
ment is as essential to elevate poetry as elegance of expression, and 
that, however gorgeous the apparel which excited genius may 
throw around sensuality, it cannot conceal its deformities, or render 
it other than revolting to pure minds and refined tastes. What, for 
instance, should we think of the above gross idea, if stripped of 



54 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



the magic of a name, and the harmony of verse, and rendered in 
plain prose, or colloquial English? — as we shall not do by it; for, 
although the manner would be offensive, the matter would be dis- 
gusting ; and we have no desire to present our readers a new 
feature in psychology, which, thoiigh novel, we should hardly con- 
sider delicate. Ncr can we speak very favorably of Miss Fatima, 
or of any other Miss, who would own to such invasion of her lips, 
or such extortion of her inner life, when, to acknowledge she has 
been kissed at all, requires, from a properly constituted female, the 
plea of consanguinity, of intimate connection, or the sanction of 
plighted love, or of wedded privilege, to make it admissible ; and 
some such palliation to excuse her unblushing avowal of it. And 
then, oh, Cupid, such a kiss! We think the fiery annals record 
not the like of it. Why, even that of Bowles, immortalized by 
Byron, which caused the woods of Madeira to tremble, not so 
much with delight as with amazement, was as feeble, when com- 
pared with it, as the cold and formal salutation of Gallic custom, 
to the hearty smack the clown inflicts on the unctuous lips of his 
inamorata. If the conceit of Bowles be ridiculous, it is more toler- 
able than Tennyson's, because more decent. 

We are not of those who approve the frequent introduction of 
these physical manifestations of the tender passion in compositions, 
whether of prose or of verse, and we have remarked in Tennyson a 
stronger tendency to what we consider a violation of the sweet 
uses of poetry, in this particular, than in any other of our modern 
authors, with the exception, perhaps, of Alexander Smith— who is 
a greater poet than Tennitson. But with both of these celebrities, 
kissing, embracing, and such like manipulatory demonstrations of 
attachment, are too often substituted for that more delicate and 
spiritual commerce between heart and heart, and soul and soul, 
which, in our opinion, makes love what it should be — a sentiment, 
rather than a sensuality — a moral, not an animal gratification. 
We hope man has been taught in a school of purer ethics than to 
regard our sex as 

"A toy, for idle play. 
To use but till the gilding wears away." 



IMMORAL POETRY. 



as he would certainly consider us, if he estimated us only by the 
standard of Mr. Tennyson and his compeers, and looking not 
beyond mere outward attraction to captivate his affection, or 
inspire his song. For our own part, we think such heroines as 
Fatima, should excite abhorence instead of admiration, and such 
ebullitions of delirious passion as she expresses, be considered better 
fitted to the mad-house, than to the requirements of rational and 
decorous life; and while we can readily imagine that no iiseful 
lesson in natural or human emotion is to be learned from such 
demoralizing hyperbole, we are equally convinced it may lead to 
folly, to say the least of it. We desire not to limit Poetry to the 
actual, for this would be to curtail her of her lawful and most 
delightful province ; but we would have her to be chaste in her 
imaginings ; to address herself more to the sensibilities than to the 
senses ; to teach us to desire thd fellowship of the spirit, more than 
the charms of the person ; and to represent beauty as but the 
auxiliary to modesty — as the outer garment of those hidden and 
superior graces which unfold themselves with diffidence to the 
respectful advances of the sterner sex — and which, like the exqui- 
site leaves of that perfect emblem of feminine reserve, the sensitive 
plant, are rather designed to recoil from the breath of rude and 
wanton approach, than to encourage it. 

We have hazarded these observations at the risk of being con- 
sidered hypercritical, because we love the muse and respect our 
sex, and regard both as given for nobler purposes than such verse 
as we have deprecated would imply — the one to inspire the heart 
of man with chaste and holy ardour; the other to kindle it to 
fervent but temperate flame. We prefer to eschew Poetry alto- 
gether, when she parts company with Propriety, because then we 
could not have Modesty by our side to listen to her outpourings, 
or ask Innocence to sympathise with us in her communions. 
When her conceptions raise a blush, or the remotest indication of 
one, on the cheek that should never glow with other than holy or 
healthful agitation ; or when her expressions startle the fibres 
which reach to the citadel where we would have native Purity to 
sit enshrined and immaculate, — 



56 



POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



'* Chaste as the icicle 
That's curdled by the frost of purest snows, 
And hangs on Dian's temple" — 

we have done with her, and abandon her to the licentious of tlie 
one sex, and the "strong-minded" of the other, to whose less fas- 
tidious and hardier constitution she may prove a more acceptable 
and less dangerous teacher and associate. 




THE DREAM OF YESTERDAY. 57 



fKe Bream of Yesterba^. 



I. 

Delusive dream of yesterday, 

Why vanish thou so soon away ? 

The throbbing brain, the moisoned eye, 

The quivering lip, and heaving sigh, 

Though wrung from out the spirit's grief, 

Still, still afford a poor relief. 

II. 

But when the tear-drops will not start, 
And burn and blister on the heart, — 
When the wild passion darkly roll 
Their turbid torrents o'er the soul. 
Who, then, may measure the despair 
That burns, like a volcano, there ? 

III. 

Delusive dream of yesterday, 
I may not, loill not bid thee stay ; 



58 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



I scorn the sigh, the briny tear — 
There is no foolish -weakness here ! 
Ill wrap me in my robe of gloom, 
And wait in silence for the torab. 

IV. 

What care I for the boisterous throng, 
The witty word, the merry song, 
The shining tress, the form of grace, 
The blazing eye and blushing face ? — 
All these are false and vain to me — 
A jest, a hollow mockery ! 



Delusive dream of yesterday, 
Thine was a bright and lurid ray, 
But darkened with the beam of Him* 
Who'll shine again, though thou art dim! 
I'd laugh although His morrow's birth 
Should scatter madness o'er the earth, 

VI. 

For why may other hearts still feel 
Imagined rapture, though unreal. 
And beat and brighten with a spark 
Of hope or love, while mine is dark? — 



The Sun. 



THE DREAM OP YESTERDAY. 59 



Companionship in my despair, 
Might shed some consolation there ! 

VII. 

Though crushed the heart, and seared the brain, 
Though darkness spreads its pall again — 
I heed not, in my hour of gloom. 
The smile of love, or beauty's bloom ; 
I laugh thy mockery away. 
Delusive dream of yesterday! 



C^j^ 



60 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



1 



emmiscenccs. 



I. 

'Tis but a very little while 

Since -with my satchel in my hand, 
And on my face a joyous smile, 

I roamed amidst the school-girl band, 
Aye, I was blest and happy then 

"When laugh and song rang gaily out, 
Resounding through the forest glen. 

That echoed with the torrents shout, 

11. 

The old school-house, with moss o'ergrown, 

That nestled sweetly by the hill, 
Where erst the youthful look and tone 

Sent to my heart a holy thrill; — 
Ah! to my vision now it seems 

Some lonely and enchanted place. 
The highwrought image of my dreams. 

Which time can never quite efface. 



REMINICENCES. 61 



III. 

blest and lioly is each thought 

That links my heart with those bright hours, 
When little gleesome children brought 

A flower- wreathed vine to deck our bowers', 
And ever loving, trusting, then, 

We built our arbours on the stream, 
Nor thought of sorrow yet to come. 

But as the shadow of a dream. 



IV. 

And as we left the school-room door. 

When the wild winds blew sharp and keen, 
Oh, how we danced and gamboled o'er 

The glittering robe of snow and sheen ! 
We loved the winters frosty breath, 

On icy pinions fleeting by ; — 
Ah ! now it seems the voice of death. 

And every breeze awakes a sigh. 

V. 

Where are those smiling faces now, 

In school-girl days that beamed so bright ? 
And where the teacher's noble brow. 

We gazed upon with pure delight ; 
Gone, like the flitting, fleecy cloud, 

That drives along the azure skies ; — 
Gone, like the bud that bursts in bloom 

Then bows its head, and droops, and dies. 



62 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



VI. 

Some o'er the world's wide desert roam, 

Some plough the billowy ocean waves ,- 
But every echo tells of home, 

Of perished hopes and lonely graves, 
For not a heart that beats so high, 

As it were wont in other years ; 
The cheek is pale, and dim the eye. 

Beneath a burning weight of tears. 

VII. 

Alas ! so false youth's fond hopes prove, 

So doomed to trial and regret ; 
The pure, pale, glimmering stars we love. 

Soonest in silent darkness set. 
But, like those loved and lost, they rise 

Brighter and purer than before, 
And in yon bright, eternal skies, 

Live in God's love for evermore. 




THOU ART BELOVED. 63 



Thoxt art ©eloveb. 



Tnotr art beloved ! — 
I tell it to the breeze, but ah ! from thee 
I guard it with a mournful secrecy. 
Breeze that hast roved 

From early morn through glen and woodland dim, 
Scattering, like showers of gems, the scented dews 
From verdurous bough and rainbow-tinted cup, 
Lifting each dainty leaflet up, 
To drop sweet notes into thy charmed hymns; 
To thee, oh breeze, my thoughts I loose. 
Like severed rose-leaves sweet; 
Bear thou the broken harmony complete 
To the fair maid. 

Leaning from vine-wreathed casement down the glade 
Listening for coming feet; 
Paving the path with music of her dreams — 
The while the ripples of her shining hair 
Enrich with golden sweep the dusky air — 
When to thy soft caress the light vine stirs, 
Whispers, until it seems 

The echo of the heart that beats with hers — 
" Thou art beloved." 



64 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



II. 

Thou art beloved — 
I write it on the waves, but not to thee. 
Heart-idol shrined, adored, unwittingly. 
There, where the moonlight lies, 
Silvering the edge of each wave that up-curls 
Its azure, lined with braided pearls, 
A light barque flies 

On wings of white across the moonlit deep. 
With one, perchance, whom doubt hath robbed of sleep. 
He dreams of home, 

Casting swift thoughts, like pearls, into the foam, 
As part the shining waves. 
He marvels if fond hearts have changed — 
If silent absence hath the love estranged ; 
And thinks if zephyrs pass, 
Gathering the scent of daisies from the grass 
On new-made graves! 
Swift be the pang removed. 
Of pitiless despair and doubt, waves ! 
As if an angel were empowered to write 
In characters of light, 

This truth, that warm hearts wait him, let him see 
These words the moonbeams there have traced for me, 
" Thou art beloyed."' 

III. 

Thou art beloved — 
I breathe it unto God, but not to thee, 



THOU ART BELOVED. 65 



Even to him who reads 

Our feeble nature's mighty needs, 

In the grand hush of His eternity. 

Thy dear name shall not pass my lips, 

Save in the darkness of the minds eclipse ; 

When, like the miser at the gate of Death, 

Dropping his hoarded treasures with his dust, 

My heart, through weakness treacherous to its trust, 

Casts down its gems unconsciously. 

My hopes have proved 

But Dead-Sea apples crumbling at a touch ! 

Life's overmuch 

Of pain intense shall cease alone with breath. 

Impassable the gulf twixt thee and me — 

A wild Red Sea with none to part the waves. 

Thy love my spirit craves. 

As flowers the sunlight — fails me utterly. 

Ah! when the eternal morning dawns. 

And amaranthines shall displace the thorns; 

When on my brow 

No roseate blush shall overspread the snow 

Up-crimsoning from my heart at thought of thee, 

Revealing secret strife ; 

And when, all saintly white. 

With leanings toward God and angel life, 

I meet thee crowned with light ; — 

Then shalt thou view within my soul as clear 

As gems in sun-kissed waves, or stars at night. 

This truth, sacredly guarded here — 

Thou art beloved. milly. 



66 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Tlierc is no Sin in ILovin^ Tlice. 



I. 

There is no sin in loving thee, 

Since hope denies its gladsome glow, — 
Since fate has sealed its stern decree, 

I dream of joys I ne'er may know; — 
Since thou art all of love and bliss, 

But from my reach art placed afar, 
I'll love in plaintive silence — yes, 

I'll love thee, as I'd love a star ! 

II. 

There is no sin in loving thee. 

Though other ears my vows have known, 
And other hearts have learned to be 

Thrilled by my jest — swayed by my tone; 
There is no wrong in worshiping 

The bright, the beautiful, the fair. 
Though to my heart each pulse may bring 

The silent throbbings of despair. 



THERE IS NO SIN IN LOVING THEE. 67 



III. 

Though sluggish waters darkly flow 

Where poisonous vapours float along, 
They love the fountain's crystal glow, 

They love the murmuring brooklet's song ! 
Though fettered in the dungeon's gloom, 

The prisoned captive clasps his chain, 
He loves, amidst that darkened room, 

To dream of liberty again ! 

IV. 

Though bound in withes of woe, the soul 

Grovels and broods o'er things of earth. 
The free-born spirit spurns control. 

And mounts to a celestial birth — 
Though struggling midst the great world's strife, 

Mortal may burst his prison-bars. 
And soar to an immortal life. 

Among the myriads of stars ! 



There is no sin in loving thee ! 

E'en from the regions of the air 
My wandering soul returns to me. 

And finds no holier spirit there ! 
Among the vast ideal throng. 

Whose wafted wings the zephyrs part. 
No beauties and no bliss belong, 

Like those that cluster round thy heart ! 



68 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



VI. 

Then let my lonely spirit glow, 

Its idol is of heavenly birth — 
Why should the immortal only know 

The faults and follies of the earth ? 
Like a weak wave, that loves the shore, 

And springs to greet it from the sea, 
I hope, I live, I breathe no more, 

Save in one endless dream of thee ! 




PRAYER OF THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 69 



Prai?cr of tlu Ne^leckc) Wife. 



I. 

Teach me, God, to bear 
With grace, the heavy burden of my woe — 
Thou only canst remove this weight of care, 

And dry these tears that flow. 

II. 

Pity me, my God ! 
For I have vowed, beneath this weary load, 
To tread a path which faltering feet have trod — 

This dark and thorny roa^. 

III. 

And I, whose panting heart 
So longs for hope, and love, and sympathy, 
Have bowed beneath the storm — have felt the smart, 

Chastened, God, by Thee! 



70 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



IV. 

' 0, Father, pity me ! 
Thou shelterest always in the threat'ning hour — 
And in my feebleness, I ask from Thee 

The strength, the mighty power, 

V. 

To stand serenely up, 
Beneath this burning -weight of unshed tears, 
I stifle back — the bitter, bitter cup. 

That I must drink for years. 

VI. 

Father, my soul is dark ! 
Light Thou the dreary pathway that I tread — 
Temper the waves around my fragile bark. 

The winds above my head. 

VII. 

For he, whose manly breast 
Promised to shelter — but forgets its trust ; 
He who should fold me in his arms to rest. 

But bows me in the dust, 

VIII. 

My fainting form is weak I 
My heart is heavy, and mine eyes are dim — 
For I must bear, when sympathy I seek. 

Neglect and scorn from him ! 



PRAYER OF THE NEGLECTED WIFE. Yl 



IX. 

Poor woman's heart who knows? 
Brim-full of tears as ocean of its foam, 
It weeps, and suffers, bears a weight of woes, 

And breaking, yet beats on. 

X. 

From Thee I crave relief, 
God — for Thou canst save from all alarms — 
Then bear my fainting spirit up, beneath 

Thine everlasting arms. 




72 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Ta a Slar-Breamcr. 



I. 

Why sing to orbs insensible, 

When day is done? 
Be there no hearts to love thee well, 

Thou lonely one! 
Be there no sufferings to soothe. 
No hopes to cheer, no brows to smooth, 
No souls to bless, no hearts to love. 

Beneath the sun? 

II. 

There be no spirits in the air. 

Or in the sky. 
To soothe thy griefs, thy love to share, 

Thy tears to dry! 
The night-orbs burn with borrowed blaze, 
Their lustre dim, and cold their rays — 
The evening stars but meet thy gaze 
I "With mocking eye ! 



TO A STAR-DREAMER. 73 



III. 

But there be human hearts that thrill 

"With sympathy, 
And know no thought, in good or ill. 

But truth to thee ! 
Their love will shine with constant ray, 
To gild thy dark and lonely way! — 
Why dost inconstant turn away 

From them and me? 

IV. 

The tinted fields are rich with flowers. 

With dew-drops bright; 
The weeping clouds refresh with showers, 

Or smile in light; 
The breezes waft from summer skies 
A thousand tints of golden dyes, 
And every spray delights the eyesi 
And glads the sight. 



The modest violet, lowly, meek. 
From the sun's ray — 
A thousand blushes on its cheek — 

Shrinking away; 
It bows its head beneath the storm. 
Sweet emblem of life's early morn. 
Of innocence and beauty born — 
Happy and gay. 



74 


POEMS AND SKETCHES. • 




VI. 


The 


giant forest waves its arms, 




And points to heaven — 


Now 


fanned by zephyrs, lashed by storms. 




By tempests riven, 


The 


blooming vales, the flower-crowned hills. 


The 


cooling springs, and gushing rills- 


The 


very heart of nature thrills — 




As if from heaven. 




t 
VII. 


The 


wavea of ocean kiss the shore 




In dalliance gay, 


Glowing and sparkling evermore, 




Bright as the day; 


They 


rise in clouds, dissolve in rain. 


Now 


sigh with joy, or shriek with pain. 


And 


dash against the rocks in vain, 




Then melt in spray. 




VIII. 


The 


bird that seeks the summer sky, 




Bright plumed and fair, 


Sing 


3 its sweet song, but knows not why. 




And cleaves the air; 


Its life the loving hand bestows, 


Who 


rules the seas, who paints the rose; 


And 


e'en the little warbler knows 




That God is there! 



TO A STAR-DREAMER. 75 



IX. 

All things are joyous — God is good — 

Enthroned above, 
He stills the tempest, stays the flood; 

The fountains move! 
Then lift thy dim and weary eyes. 
And let thy heart like incense rise 
To praise the Ruler of the skies — 

The Source of Love ! 




76 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Saci Memories* 



I. 

When tlie low, mournful echoes of the past, 

Send sighing sadly back their dirge-like strain, 
And chaunt of joys too precious far to last — 

And hours of bliss I ne'er may know again — 
Ah ! then the aching heart feels sad and lone, 

And broods with miser care o'er pleasures fled ; 
And mourns with bitter grief for loved ones gone 

Down to the silent chambers, of the dead I 

II. 

Ah I not one hand in this world's wilderness, 

Can smooth care's furrow's on my saddened brow, 
And not a heart can feel for the distress 

That preys upon my icebound heart-strings now I 
Ah, no! each hand has other brows to smooth. 

Without whose charm would clouds of woe o'ercast, 
And each fond heart has other hearts to love, 

Without whose love would break 'neath sorrow's blast I 



SAD MEMORIES. T7 



III. 

0, bruised and shattered heart, why wert thou left 

To beat alone on this bleak, desert shore. 
Without one spot where thou could'st safely rest ; 

When passion's weaves around thy pathway roar ? 
And why did not this care-rent bosom cease 

To feel, ere it had known the weight of care. 
And this poor pulse be still, ere woe and grief 

Had taught the soul its lesson of despair I 

IV. 

From thy pure, blissful home, oh loved and lost, 

Come to the heart that throbs so lonely now. 
And warm the bosom, chilled by winds and frost. 

That pale the cheek, and furrow o'er the brow; — 
And when on earth its sighs and dreams are o'er. 

And it shall sink, with keenest anguish riven. 
When sorrow's surges shall be heard no more, 

0, let it throb with joy again — in heayen ! 




•78 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



^^Tliou liast Uch, IbricjKt anb glorious Yision. 



I. 

Thou Last fled, bright and glorious vision, 

From my heart thou hast fled but too soon. 
And has changed its enchanted Elysian, 

To a lone waste of sorrow and gloom ; 
As a sunbeam thy beauty has vanished, 

And the clouds of despair have come o'er; 
For the joy of life's morning is banished — 

Hope sleepeth to wake nevermore. 

II. 

As a statue of sorrow and sadness, 

I gaze on the beauty of earth ; 
For the dawn of a young spirits gladness, 

Fades e'en as it springs into birth ; 
My sad heart is desolate, dreary. 

And troubled by storm and by wave — 
But the lone, and the weak, and the weary. 

Shall rest in the calm of the grave ! 



THOU HAST FLED, BRIGHT AND GLORIOUS VISION. 



79 



III. 

Is there aught in the bright world above us, 

When tlie storms of affliction arise. 
To fondly bend o'er us and love us, 

And guide our frail bark to the skies? 
Ah ! yes — when the tempest-tost ocean. 

To the breakers our vessel hast driven, 
It whispers that storm and commotion, 

Shall hasten our spirits to heaven ! 



r 



'3^^. 



80 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



The Iropcr to lib Hab^, 



0, Lady, sing tliat song again ! 

For never did the listening air 

Upon its lambent bosom bear 
So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain! 
Like rain-drops on the thirsty plant. 

It falls upon the thirsty soul, 
Till all the quivering pulses pant, 

And through the heart like lava roll 
Emotions, surging, free — 

Till thought and feeling spurn control, 
And lips are eloquent of thee! 
If there be shadowy forms, that fly 

On unseen wings, with plumage bright. 

In realms of beauty and of light. 
Beyond the scope of mortal eye — 
If there be voices in the air 

That gush in song, or thrill io" speech. 
May not our longing spirits hear 

The lesson that they teach ? 



THE LOVER TO HIS LADY. 



0, lady, in this 'woodland shade, 
Where lovers meet to whisper o'er 
Vows made a thousand times before, 

Though sweet as when the first were made. 

Will breathe our loves in passioned phrase— 
We'll tell the stars our tales of bliss ; 

They'll smile on us their brightest rays, 
And they will be our witnesses. 

We'll share our rapture with the birds, 
That twitter joy on every tree; 

In songs they'll speak the fondest words. 
That I would speak to thee ! 




82 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



A Sliefcli from Scat Life. 



KoT many montlis ago, when we lived in the conntrj', a man in 
middle life came to our door, enqiiiring if we could direct him to 
the house of the "minister," remarking that he had lost his mother, 
and as this place used to be her home, and his father was buried 
here, he had come to lay her beside him. 

Our heart rose in sympathy, and we said, "You have met with a 
great loss. " 

" Well — yes, " replied the strong man, with hesitancy, " a mother 
is a great loss in general ; but our mother has outlived her use- 
fulness ; she was in her second childhood and her mind was grown 
as weak as her body, so that she was no comfort to. herself and was 
a burden to everybody. There were seven of us, sons and daugh- 
ters; and as we could not find anybody who was willing to board 
her, we agreed to keep her among us a year about. But I've had 
more than my share of her, for she was too feeble to be moved 
when my time was out ; and that was more than three months 
before her death. But then, she was a good mother in her day, 
and toiled very hard to bring us all up. " 



A SKETCU PROM REAL LIFE. 



83 



"She Avas a good mother in her day, aud toiled hard to bring us 
all up— she was no comfort to herself, and a burden to everybody 
else!" These cruel, heartless words rang in our ears as we saw 
the coffin borne up the street. The bell tolled long and loud, until 
its iron tongue had chronicled the years of the toil-worn mother. 
One — two — three — ^four — five. How clearly and almost merrily each 
stroke told of her once peaceful slumber on her mothers bosom, and 
of her seat at nightfall on her weary father's knees. Six — seven — 
eight — nine — ten — rang out the tale of her sports upon the green 
sward, in the meadow, and by the brook. Eleven — twelve — thir- 
teen—fourteen — fifteen — spoke more gravely of school days, and little 
household joys and cares. Sixteen — seventeen — eighteen, — sounded 
out the enraptured visions of maidenhood, and the dream of early 
love. Nineteen brought before us the happy bride. Twenty spoke 
of the young mother whose hea.rt was full to bursting with the 
new, strong love which God had awakened in her bosom. And 
then stroke after sti'oko told of lier early womanhood — of the love, 
and cares, and hopes, and fears, and toils, through which she passed 
during these long years — till fifty rang out harsh and loud. From 
that to sixty each stroke told of the warm-hearted mother and 
grandmoHier, living over again her own joys and sorrows in those 
of her children and children's children. Every family of all the 
group wanted grandmother then, and the only strife was, who 
should secure the prize ; but hark ! the bell tolls on ? Seventy — 
seventy-one — two — three — four. She begins to grow feeble, requires 
some care, is not always patient or satisfied ; she goes from one 
child's house to another, so that no one place seems like home. 
She murmurs ia plaintive tones, and after all her toil and wea- 
riness, it is hard she cannot be allowed a home to die in ; that she 
must be sent, rather than invited from house to house. Eighty — 
eighty -one — two — throe — four — ah ! she is now a second child — now 
'"she has outlived her usefulness, she has now ceased to be a com- 
fort to herself or anybody;" that is, she has ceased to be pi-ofitable 
to her earth-craving and money-grasping children. 

Now sounds out, reverberating through our lovely forest, and 
echoing liack from our " hill of the dead, " eighty-nine ! there she 



84 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



now lies in the coffin, cold and still — she makes no trouble now, 
demands no love, no soft words, no tender little offices. A look of 
patient endurance, we fancied also an expression of grief for unre- 
quited love, sat on lier marble features. Her children were there, 
clad in weeds of woe, and in an irony we remember the strong 
man's words, "She was a good mother in her day!" 

When the bell ceased tolling, the strange minister rose in the 
pulpit. His form was very erect, and his voice strong, but his 
hair was silvery white. He read several passages of Scripture 
expressive of God's compassion to feeble man, and especially of his 
tenderness when grey hairs are on him, and his strength faileth. 
He then made some touching remarks on human frailty and of 
dependence on God, urging all present to make their peace with 
their Maker when in health, that they might claim his promises, 
when heart and flesh should fail them. " Then, " he said, " the 
eternal God shall be thy refuge, and beneath thee shall be the ever- 
lasting arms. " Leaning over the desk, and gazing intently on the 
coffined form before him, he said, reverently, "from a little child I 
have honored the aged; but never till grey hairs covered my own 
head, did I know truly how much love and sympathy this class 
have a right to demand of their fellow-creatures. Our mother, " he 
added most tenderly, " who now lies in death before us, was a 
stranger to me, as are all these her descendants. All I know of 
her is what her son told me to-day— that she w^as brought to this 
town sixty-nine j^ears ago, a happy bride — that here she has passed 
most of her life, toiling as only mothers have strength to toil, 
until she had reared a large family of sons and daughters— that 
she left her home here, clad in the weeds of widowhood, to dwell 
among her children ; and that, till health and vigour left her, she 
lived for you, her descendants. You, who together have shared her 
love and her care, know how well you have requited her, God for- 
bid that conscience should accuse any of you of ingratitude or mur- 
muring on account of the care she has been to you of late. When 
you go back to your homes, be careful of your words and your 
example before your own children, for the fruit of your own doing 
you will surely reap from them when you yourselves totter on the 



A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. 85 



brink of the grave. I entreat you as a friend, as one -who has 
himself ' entered the evening of life, ' that you may never say, in 
the presence of your families nor of heaven, ' Our mother has 
outlived her usefulness — she was a burden to us.' " Never, never ! 
a mother cannot live so long as that ! No ; when she can no longer 
labour for her children, nor yet care for herself, she can fall like 
a precious weight on their bosoms, and call forth by her helpless- 
ness all the noble, generous feelings of their natures. 

Adieu, then, poor, toil-worn mother; there are no more sleepless 
nights, no more days of pain for thee. Undying vigour and ever- 
lasting usefulness are part of the inheritance of the redeemed. 
Feeble as thou wert on earth, thou wilt be no burden on the 
bosom of Infinite Love, but there shalt thou find thy longed-for 
rest, and receive glorious sympathy from Jesus and his ransomed 




POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Woman's jBigliis. 



It must be a grief to every true -woman, that in whatever 
assemblage she may chance to be — from a dinner -with the literati, 
down to a social evening party — the term "Woman's Eights" is 
no sooner uttered, than straightway, like a bolt of iron, it strikes 
upon the timid ears of the other sex, turning the sweetest smile 
of the mustachoed lip into the most ferocious curl imaginable ; 
giving to the most amiable countenance an expression of derision, 
which says, as clearly as words can speak it, that woman has no 
"rights "at all, except those which freakish man, in his various 
humors, may concede her. 

Now, dear gentleman reader, this is not policy. If you wish to 
keep your wife free from the mania, appear to her perfectly indif- 
ferent in regard to it. Allow her to do and say what she may 
please, without opposition. Let her think for herself! This at 
least is woman's right. If you differ with her, let it be by reason- 
ing, as with your equal. Eeceive her opinions with the same 
deference you would if she were a man. Do not think that because 
'tis a woman who speaks, there can be no weight in her words. 
Do not suppose that by listening to her arguments, you lose dig- 
nity, or that she gains ascendancy over you. Far from it. Any 
true woman will bo all the more true and womanly, if she be 
treated as a rational, reasoning being. 



woman's rights. 



Consult her upon important things. Discuss with her the great 
public movements. No matter if they be political. Woman should 
understand politics. Give her the papers to read. If she have not 
time to read them, on account of a " little baby," or a little sewing, 
or any other little cares, read them to her, not forgeting even the 
underhand trickeries of politicians ! The more she knows of their 
intricate windings, the more fondly she will cling to her own sphere, 
blessing her stars that she is not a politician. 

'Tis yet almost an universal creed, that woman need not meddle 
with, or understand great matters. It is a great wrong to her. It 
leads to rebellion. We believe that many a woman, now discontented 
with her destiny, and determined to fight her way on, through " law " 
and politics— throwing off her dependence and delicacy afe the same 
time, and standing forth for "Woman's Rights,"— has been driven 
little by little to that extremity, by the petty grievances of the course 
of treatment she has received in this particular. 

Women should understand matters outside the nursery and domes- 
tic circle. She pines for something beyond her own little limits, to 
dwell upon in her hours alone, when shut iu from the great world- 
something to keep the mind vigorous, and the thoughts active. Why 
should she not be grasping and aspiring, as well as man? Why 
should she not thirst for a knowledge of human events ? Give her 
knowledge, give her education ! Let her range in the fields of litera- 
ture, of science ! Let her dive into the study of human nature ! Let 
her explore the depths of mind! The jewels she may bring you may 
be priceless. 

That we are more ignorant than we need bo we must confess. We 
do not inform ourselves as we might. Yet even the folly of our own 
remissness, we can trace somewhat to man. For example :— A gentle- 
man calls on a lady. They pass the compliments of the day ; they 
discuss with animation the pleasures and annoyances of the last season 
at the Springs, hint at the oddities of the last fashion, look over the 
engravings and sketches, read or quote a little poetry, — and the visit 
is over. The lady thinks she did wonders in entertaining her guest ; 



POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



and the gentleman thinks he must have been a very agreeable visitor. 
They were both right, doubtless. They have entertained, but not 
benefitted each other. The gentleman would laugh at the absurdity 
of introducing any subject of importance ; of course, he takes for 
granted it would embarras her ; and thus he treats her nearly as if he 
considered her his inferior. The lady naturally enough sees the safety 
of ignorance. She knows she will not be expected to speak upon any 
topic beyond the school-girl catalogue. Therefore, her only induce- 
ment to labor is her natural thirst for information. "With others, one 
severe mortification, such as that of finding themselves in the middle 
of a conversation for which they are unfitted, would awaken their 
sluggish energies far more speedily. 

Throw upon woman the responsibility of thinking and speaking 
for herself, according to her abilities and advantages. She will not 
only be happier, and far more useful, but she will be a companion for 
the intelligent and intellectual man, in his hours of research and 
investigation ; while now, she is companionable only in hours of 
leisure and diversion. 

Few women think for themselves. Speak to them of any event in 
the political world, and see if they do not tell you that " husband 
thinks this, and says that." And see if, in a conversation of ten 
minutes, however round about it may be, you do not come to the one 
momentous fact — that they have not one thought drawn from their 
own abundant mines of intellect, but have simply adopted their 
husband's opinions. 

Now this is all beautiful enough, and surely it is a good way to 
get over present difficulties. Yet it is not right. It gives to man that 
superiority that nature did not give him. It renders woman helpless 
and weak, where nature made her strong. The man studies, reads 
and soars, while the woman looks after the household, the fashions, 
and — grovels. Her intelligence does not increase with years, and con- 
sequently, she finds herself at last but a very simple old lady ; while 
her husband's mind is stored with the gems he has picked up by the 
wayside, all to himself, being blinded by the foolish belief that they 
Avere beyond the sphere and comprehension of woman. Shame, 



.LofC. 



WOMA\ S RIGHTS. 



89 



shame to that old man ! Let him sit in silence for long hours, 
because the partner of his life cannot meet him in pleasant and intel- 
ligent converse. She has no stores, no chambers filled with rich 
treasures of intellect. No cultivated tastes, no flowers of imagination, 
to strew along the " down hill of life." She must grovel on to the 
end. The " mistake of a life-time " is seen but too late ! 

[ We cannot endorse this article. There is something so horrible 
to us in the mere words, " Woman's rights," that we shudder at the 
sound. What ! throw aside our dependence on " lordly man," — cease 
to be his Pet ! or by our own acts deprive ourselves of any portion of 
his tender regard ? 0, no, no, no ! decidedly not ! Let those who 
wish live for ambition, we confess a gentler sentiment is the charm 
which sweetens our existence. Nor do we think that a knowledge of 
" politics," or any other '* men " matters, can in any manner enlarge 
the female intellect. We have in our library, books suflBcient to 
employ our leisure time in study, till the hair shall have become white 
with age, and not one treats of " politics," but pleasant, amusing, 
intellectual works, from authors of true merit, and the reading and 
study of which cannot fail to fill the mind brim full of useful informa- 
tion, and render the " ignorant " female not only capable to entertain 
agreeably, the man of "knowledge," but perhaps teach even him! We 
confess we were somewhat surprised ■ that Miss Duckwoeth should 
write such an article, as we remember her a mild, quiet creature, and 
far from "strong-minded." Perhaps experience has changed her sen- 
timents. If so, may we ever remain " sixteen and simple." — Milly.] 




90 POEMS AKD SKETCHES. 



A Mother's Tears* 



History records no more suggestive incident than the memorable 
termination of the siege of Rome by Coriolanus. No child ever 
perused the narative without extraordinary emotion. There is some- 
thing in it which appeals with an effect that may not he resisted, 
to the heart and consciousness of all. Who has not in imagination 
dwelt upon the scene ? A stout and sturdy warrior, steeled by years 
of active military service against the pitiful appeals of suffering 
humanity — the victim of fierce and ungovernaljle passions — smarting 
under a keen sense of accumulated wrong — consecrates the energies of 
his life to the avenging of his injury, and, exiled from the city 
whose annals his military prowess had adorned, sallies forth, the 
infuriated minister of wrath. Sacrificing all higher and more 
ennobling aspirations — sullying for ever the hard-earned laurels of 
the victor of Corioli — he seeks, even at the price of a traitor's fame, 
to purchase a satisfying vengeance. Rallying round him an army 
of the enemy he had prostrated for her, he throws himself with an 
exulting legion upon the offending city, and thunders at her gates. 
Appalled and prostrated at the realization of her seemingly 



A mother's tkars. 91 



inevitable doom, Eome trembles before him. Witli liumbled pride 
her haughty senators, in solemn procession, come to sue for mercy. 
Disdainfully repulsed, they despatch the ministers of their religion 
to woo with the hopes of bliss, and intimidate with the prospect of 
a coming retribution. But all in vain. Unrelenting and unmoved 
by every appeal, the stern veteran relaxes not his purpose. Then 
come the mother's tears ! Bending under the weight of years, sus- 
tained only by a holy hope, the aged matron sallies forth. Who 
can paint the scene ? Who may realize the meeting ? In the most 
insensate soul there are treasured associations and memories, which 
forgotten amid the wild tumult of angry passion awaken at the 
whisper of a mother's name, to beat in every pulsation of the heart, 
and thrill through every fiber of the frame. There is a sentiment 
of holy veneration in the soul of the child to its mother, which he 
must sound the lowest depths of infamy who may forget or disre- 
gard. With streaming eyes and anguished heart, the Roman mother 
kneels to plead with her traitor son. Appealing to him by all the 
hallowed memories of his uncorrupted boyhood, and chiding with 
the affectionate rebuke and tenderness that well up from a mother's 
soul towards an erring child, she conjures him to relinquish his 
cherished purpose. The warrior is unmanned. "Talk not of grief 
till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men. " Fearful, but of brief 
duration, is the struggle of contending emotions. Instinct tri- 
umphs — the cup of vengeance is dashed untasted from the lips. 
Eome is safe again . A mother's tears have changed the destiny of 
the world ! 



92 POEMS AND SKETCHES, 



Sann(c5S Gossii 



A cuEiors idea prevails pretty generally tliafc it is not altogether 
right for people to indulge in a little quiet gossip about the charac- 
ter, the actions, or even the business of their acquaintances or 
neighbors, as though we were not all fully entitled to enjoy the 
right of free speech ! The monstrosity of such an idea is so great 
as to exite contempt, so strong that language cannot be found to 
express the virtuous indignation that swells so many bosoms. A 
pretty idea, truly ! And yet it is a singular fact that such an idea 
has always prevailed ; but the belief has not been of any great 
moment, inasmuch as it is so rarely reduced to practice. Occa- 
sionally some one will be so strangely eccentric as even to rebuke 
the indulgence of a little cosy gossip about the private character 
and affairs of peoide. It is refreshing to know that such rebukes 
do not have a lasting effect, and generally cause a further unlim- 
bering of the tongue, as a practical manifestation of the most 
absolute indtqiendence. The anti-gossip theory sounds very nice, 
but the idea is simply preposterous that such a plan could be prac- 
tically carried into effect. Why the wheels of society would at 
once be "scotched;" tea-parties would be deprived of their cream, 
club-rooms of their soothing tobacco, women would sink into their 



HARMLESS GOSSIP. 93 



family circle, and meu would find themselves forced to be content 
to spend their evenings at home. Not gossip, indeed. What an 
absurdity in this enlightened and independent age. 

Mrs. A. appears in costly garments ;— certainly Mrs. B. has a 
right to whisper to her neighbour that she is ruinously extravagant, 
and that her husband owes for them, and cannet pay his debts, 
though probably she only surmises such to be the fact. Mrs. C. 
gives a large party; — of course, Mrs. D. did not wish to be invited, 
and she declaims against such entertainments from a sense of duty, 
and not because she was neglected. Mrs. E.'s husband keeps his 
carriage ;— and certainly Mrs. F. is privileged in circulating the fact 
that his great-grandfather worked for his daily bread. Mrs. I. has 
moved into a new house, thoughtless of the fact that Mrs. J. is 
confiding to others a startling narration of the days when her needle 
was her only support. Mrs. K. wears that old-fashioned bonnet, 
which Mrs. L. is confident is caused by meanness. Mrs. M. has 
got that cloak which Mrs. N. is sure her grandmother wore. But 
Mrs. 0. made the discovery of the season ; Mrs. P. and her hus- 
band quarrel dreadfully — she passed their house and heard them — 
not knowing that the wife was in the best of humor at the time, 
trying to get a favorite look from her husband. But we will not 
continue the record of these little eccentricities of society ; enough 
is here stated for illustration. We feel bound to say that the meu 
are not in the slightest degree exempt from the peculiarities of our 
own sex. There is often this diflerencc: the ready words of men 
sometimes directly undermine the credit of neighbors, and weaken 
what otherwise would stand firm and weather a business storm. 

Probably there arc those who would consider the above nothing 
better than slander on the part of the persons indulging in such 
remarks. They are mistaken ; it is only a skeleton of ordinary 
gossip, frequently uttered to while away time, and not always with 
a deliberate intention to do serious injury to others ; and any 
attempt to restrain the custom might be treated as an infringement 
upon the " manners and customs " of society. 



94 



POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



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The American youug lady is of a species peculiarly tmique. 
There is nothing like her. In all civilized nations, young ladies 
are most carefully secluded, watched over, and deprived in a measure 
of personal liberty. The Spanish duenna is a character known in 
hlstca-y ; the seclusion of an English school-girl is proverbial ; while 
the Trench demoiselle is as carefully watched as her sister beyond 
the Pyrenees, Still less, finding no prototype to the American young 
lady in civilization, can we compare her to a Hottentot, or a savage 
of any kind ; therefore we return to our original starting-point, 
and pronounce her peculiar. 



She is like necessity, and " knows no law." She is generally 
dutiful, rnd obeys her parents as far as they require, but they do 
not require very stringent obedience. On her return home from 
school, she has her own ideas on the subject of dress, whether she 
will go into " society," or whether she will be quiet and studious 
at home. Mamma suits herself to either humor. Sometimes mamma 
keeps about, and has an eye to windward, but not always. She 
feels a great respect for Jane's own sagacity and good sense, 
perfect confidence in her prudence ; and, if somewhat out of society 
ways, as American mammas are apt to be, she allows her precious 
treasure to go to the Springs wilh a friend ; hears complacently of 



AMERICAN YOUNG LADIES. 95 



her flirtation with young Eapid ; asks her when she gets home if 
she is " engaged ; " and listens very quietly to the good sense and 
prudence which characterize the young lady's own opinion of young 
Eapid's fortune and expectations. 

In the Northern States of America, particularly New England, 
the young lady has the mantle of many Puritan grandmothers 
hanging about her; her face wears over all its innate coquetry, a 
soft veil of reserve ; she is a little distant and prudish ; her manners 
are slightly wanting in grace, that sweetest grace of all, affability, 
she is " highly intellectual," and reads Goethe, and has, as Hawthorne 
expresses it, "an instinct to attend lectures." Above all, she has 
a high sense of duty, so long and so rigidly inculcated by her 
Puritan surroundings, that it has almost extinguished her natural 
instincts — did not nature occasionally assert itself. 

If the Yankee young lady have a fault, it is in being too good, 
too learned, and too faultless. She is very pretty — beautiful when 
very young. There are no complexions which compare with the 
delicate blooms of the American sea-coast. Perhaps a shadow 
more — what shall we say — a trifle more fullness of figure, would bo 
an improvement ; a little relaxing of the muscles, a less stern view 
of life, would impz'ove the New England lady. When she gets a 
little advanced in life, she is in terrible danger of growing " strong- 
minded." But we approach the shadowy limits of our subject — we 
were speaking of young ladies. 

As we always want to get out when we have affixed a limit to 
our meditations, we are irresistibly compelled to contemplate the 
New England young lady when she ceases to bo a young ladj', and 
barters her incomparable independence " for a name and for a 
ring." As a wife she is perfect. To her, her husband is the "rose 
and the expectancy of the fair estate," and she likes to have him 
write some initial of honor before or after his name. LL. D. and 
D. D, fill her with complacency. All her ambition is for him. She 
is quite content to grow pale and thin under her many domestic 
cares, thinking always of duty, and of her home and its treasures. 



96 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 



Our New England young lady reads very good books. She has 
a horror of flashy novels — she knows Shakspeare well, and all his 
glorious company. As Charles Lamb delightfully says of his sister, 
" she has browsed at will upon the fair and wholesome pasturage of 
old English reading." She reads history, and has no shabby 
amount of Science. She knows Latin better than French, although 
she has read the classics of the latter tongue. Accomplishments of 
the lighter character are not much cultivated. She prefers hearing 
one of Ralph Waldo Emerson's lectures read aloud, to the music of 
the most bewitching waltz — not that she does not like a dance now 
and then — but all her profound emotions and sjmapathies are of the 
{esthetic. She likes whatever is obscure and dreamy; is i^rofoundly 
metaphysical in mind, while remarkably straightforward in prac- 
tice. She is the flower of the Northern tree, which, though torn 
up and planted anew, has not changed its growth, but perhaps 
modified its development. 

The American young lady is a sad flirt. She is somewhat 
inconstant in love, and considers herself doing a small business when 
only engaged to three men at once. However, the fortunate man 
who at length carries oif the prize, finds generally that his bride 
settles down into an excellent wife and mother, discharging with 
great propriety the onerous duties of domestic life. 

Let us imagine the horror of an English, a Ei-ench, or a Spanish 
mamma, if it should be proposed to them that Lady Geraldiue, the 
fair Matilda, and the dark -eyed Inez, should go travelling about the 
country alone ! — take young men to parties, dance with whom they 
please, conduct their own matrimonial arrangements, and enjoy 
nearly the liberty which falls to the lot of the elderly and married. 
The English mamma would quietly retire to her inmost closet, and 
thank heaven she is not an American ; the French mamma would 
shrug her shoulders very significantly; and the Spanish lady would 
double-lock her daughter's room, and substitute an uglier and more 
severe duenna than ever. And yet no ladies command more uni- 
versal respect — none, we believe, deserve it more — than the ladies of 
America. 



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1904 



